Unfinished Business
by Karri
Summary: Tags, missing scenes, and other one-shot episode related tales for season 1.
1. Ep1 Ghosts

**Ghosts**

by Karri

Summary: s1e1 tag - a busy day should mean a good night's sleep, right? Not when there are ghosts waiting in the darkness.

oOoOoOoOo

"Adele! Adele! ADELE!" Aramis shouted. He knew in his heart it was in vain, but he couldn't quite stop himself. Gradually, though, Aramis grew aware of the amount of unwanted attention his shouts were garnering, and self-consciousness (as well as, self-preservation) overcame heartache.

Falling silent, Aramis turned away from Adele's apartment. He let his feet carry him toward the garrison more by habit than conscious thought, his mind too mired in swirling anguish to direct him.

It did not take much reasoning to comprehend what had happened. The cardinal had grown suspicious; thus, to alleviate his doubts, Adele had agreed to join him in the country. _She left me! Chose the Cardinal over me!_

"No!" Aramis murmured aloud, stopping abruptly. _She did not leave me! She was stolen away! Just as Isabel was stolen away!_

Anger replacing anguish, Aramis squared his shoulders and strode purposefully back to the garrison and to his quarters. The fiery spark had burnt out, though, by the time he stripped off his leathers. Between saving Athos and losing Adele, he was exhausted and flopped onto his bed, not caring that he was still mostly dressed.

Sleep found him quickly enough – nearly before his head hit the mattress. Rest, however, was another thing, altogether. His mind played relentlessly with the events of the day, mixing up the elements and piecing them back together haphazardly, until he'd tossed and turned his blankets into a tangled mess around him.

 _"Athos!" he shouted. The muskets were ready – aimed and cocked! They weren't going to make it!_

 _Bam! They fired so near in unison that it seemed one sound as the shock of his failure rocked him back on his heels. He froze, only for a breath, though, and then more tumbled than ran the remaining feet to his fallen brother._

 _Gathering the limp body in his arms, Aramis ran a hand over Adele's curls, once so beautiful, now tangled haphazardly around her pale, lifeless face. She stared up at him with such shock, as though she'd never doubted he would save her. But he had failed! He had failed her!_

 _Unable to bare the accusation in her dead eyes any longer, Aramis pulled her to him and wept into her wimple. The chill air seemed to seep into his bones as he cried, and soon his arms ached from the effort of holding the stiff, frozen body up off the ground. Laying her down gently, he gazed into Isabel's sweet, innocent face. She seemed so peaceful, so angelic. There was no accusation in those eyes, only love, so much love._

 _Love for him? How could that be? He'd failed her! She was dead because of HIM! How could there be any love left? He didn't deserve it!_

 _Unable to bear it, Aramis, stumbled back…and fell gracelessly onto his rump as he tripped over… What was it?_

 _His breath caught in his throat as he recognized it as a frozen arm. Scrambling away, he pushed himself to his feet and approached the frozen body, seeking a face to go with the arm. Cornay! It was Cornay! But he was supposed to find him! Bring him back! Cornay's dead eyes stared up at him from the frozen ground. He had failed! Failed again!_

 _Spinning away from the accusation in those eyes, Aramis nearly trod upon another body. A scream rose in his throat as he turned a slow circle that revealed bodies all around him—snow-covered, broken and bloodied, shock and accusation in their frozen faces. He had failed! Failed all of them!_

 _He tried to scramble away, but a hand caught at his boot. He followed it to another body; this one, different—not snow covered, but soot covered. As bleeding and broken as the others, this one was not yet lifeless or frozen._

 _"Aramis," a weak voice called as a quivering hand reached out to him._

 _But as Aramis moved toward the hand, another voice called from behind, "Aramis!"_

 _He tried to spin, tried to see from where the second voice had come, but then came a third, "Aramis!"_

 _He twisted around, trying to find them. They were dying! They needed him! He was failing…failing AGAIN!_

 _He stumbled. Falling…bam! His shoulder was on fire! But they needed him! No, no! They were dead! They were all dead! He had failed!_

Aramis woke gasping for air as tears trickled down his cheeks. _I'm on the floor,_ was his first coherent thought. His shoulder hurt, and he rubbed it distractedly. _I must have landed on it when I fell out of bed,_ he mused as he tried to rise.

Aramis quickly realized that his feet were too tangled in blankets. _That is what tripped me, not a dead friend,_ he reasoned, hoping calm logic would banish away the last vestiges of the nightmare. But as he freed himself from the blankets and stood, his heart still thudded with residual panic, and he knew there'd be no sleep for him again soon.

Aramis raked a hand through his unruly curls as he considered his options. _I could try to sleep. Even if it eludes me, I will still have some rest._ But the notion of closing his eyes again with all those ghosts waiting for him in the darkness made him shudder. _Perhaps a stroll and some fresh air…_ he decided. _I'm already dressed, afterall._

He wandered aimlessly from his quarters, or at least that had been his intent. Yet he found himself, as seemed so often the case when his mind was troubled, at the supper table. _This is foolish,_ he mused. _The ghosts will find as easily sitting here as sitting in my quarters._

He knew, though, why his feet had brought him here – Old Serge. The old soldier knew what it was to be plagued by ghosts, and somehow, whether he spoke of them or not, that made Aramis's own easier to bear.

 _Yet, it is the middle of the night. No one, not even the Captain, will be wandering around for hours yet,_ Aramis observed with a twinge of loneliness. _Athos is likely still curled up with a bottle. Porthos…he'll be curled up in his bed, if he's not found a card game to distract him from sleep._

He sucked in a slow, resigned breath. _There'll be no escaping my ghosts tonite, I fear, not with Adele gone away._

"Aramis?" came a questioning voice that had him twisting around to find the speaker.

"Serge," he replied, a smile on his lips and more than a little relief in his voice.

"Want some breakfast?" the old soldier-turned-cook asked amiably, as though it were a common place occurrence to have men at his table in the middle of the night.

 _I suppose for a time, it was,_ Aramis acknowledged. He'd spent quite a few nights avoiding his ghosts by sitting at this supper table after Savoy.

"Nothing ready yet, but I can whip something up right quick," Serge added.

"No, thank you," Aramis answered.

Serge replied with a nonchalant shrug, but the look in his eyes said differently, and Aramis smiled a little to himself, knowing the old soldier was on to him.

"May as well make yourself useful, then," Serge replied. "Got a whole pile of turnips that need peeling and slicing before the sun comes up and these lads start clamoring for their breakfast. Come on," he urged. "Busy hands, thems the best cure for what ails ya…"

To which Aramis could only nod, as he pushed himself to his feet and followed the old soldier to his kitchen, sleeves pushed up and hands ready to work.

The end.


	2. Ep1 Retribution

**Retribution**

By Karri

Summary: s1e1 tag – Aramis has his pistol back, but something seems off…

oOoOoOoOoO

Aramis balanced his pistol in his hand, his head quirking as he concentrated on the weight of it.

"What's that matter?" asked Porthos, as his friend's brow furrowed in a look of displeasure.

"It feels…off," Aramis replied, distractedly.

"Off?" Porthos echoed. "'ere, let me see."

He held his hand out for the weapon, which Aramis promptly handed over to him, despite the amused raise of an eyebrow. Porthos shrugged in response to it. He could all but read the thought reflected in his friend's eyes. "I know, I know. _You_ are the expert when it comes to these things, and it's _your_ gun, so what am I gonna feel that _you_ don't…"

Aramis replied with a quirk of the head and half-smile that told Porthos he'd interpreted his friend's thought correctly.

"A second opinion never hurts…" Porthos responded, as he focused on the weapon now balanced in his own hand. After a moment, he shrugged. "Feels all right to me."

Aramis frowned dubiously. _It IS off. I may not know exactly how, but there IS something…_

Porthos chuckled. "You just don't like that it was out of your sight for so long."

Aramis shrugged lightly, as he admitted, "Perhaps you're right."

It always bothered him when his weapons were out of his possession and in someone else's, even when that someone was as harmless as Adele. _It's not as though she would have had cause, or even desire, to use it. Knowing Adele, she likely wrapped it up like some delicate treasure and tucked it away as a keepsake."_

The thought of her doing just that made him smile. She loved him, he was sure of it, despite her choice to go with the Cardinal. But, the world did not always allow a person to choose their heart's desire over more practical needs. The Cardinal had money. He could give Adele the lavish lifestyle she wanted; Aramis could not. It had come down to that simple reality.

Thus, Adele had returned the pistol to him, as much as a goodbye as anything. There was no malice in it. There was no reason to suspect she had, or would even know how to, tamper with the weapon. Yet, there was something…

A clap on the shoulder pulled him from his reverie, and he looked up to find Porthos gazing at him thoughtfully. "Why don't you just give it a good cleaning and see if that does the trick?

"It's loaded," Aramis responded. "Can't clean it until I fire it."

"And you don't want to fire it, until you've cleaned it," Porthos extrapolated, finally comprehending his friend's dilemma. The pistol was a finely-crafted, well-maintained thing of beauty, as were all of Aramis's weapons. Yet, if his friend couldn't trust the weapon, it was useless. "So, you gonna fire it, or get rid of it? No point keeping it if you don't dare use it."

Aramis nodded, then sighed. He hated to get rid of the weapon. Memories of Adele aside, it was an excellent pistol, and replacing it with another of equal quality would not be easy. "Can't afford to get rid of it," he finally admitted, "so I suppose I'll fire it, and then give it a good cleaning and see it that sets it right again."

"All right, then, let's get on with it," Porthos huffed, guiding his friend by the shoulder toward the training field. "You've been pondering the thing for days now, so there's no point putting it off any longer. Might need it soon…"

Aramis quietly acquiesced. Dread had settled in his stomach as the decision was made, and with each step he took nearer the targets, the feeling grew. _What are you worried about,_ he chided himself. _It's a good weapon, and I loaded it myself before leaving it at Adele's, so… At worst, she fired it, and nothing will happen._

The argument did not to untie the growing knot, though. Thus, Aramis hesitated as they reached the targets.

Porthos had felt the growing tension in Aramis as they neared the targets, and that had him worrying now, as well, though he was not really certain about what. _I'm not sure Aramis even knows what's buggin' him… but there's definitely something, and his gut's rarely wrong about these things._

"Come on! Get on with it," Porthos prodded, the nervous tension making him edgy. He wanted this—whatever it was—over with. "Athos will have drunk all the wine before we get there at this rate."

Aramis smiled, though it was strained, and replied, "As you wish."

He aimed carefully, despite a huff of impatience from behind him. "It may just be a test shot, but it's still a shot, and there's no point being careless with it."

Porthos shook his head at that. It was just like Aramis to need to hit his mark whether it mattered or not. Still he found himself smiling affectionately at his friend, despite his slow, deliberate movements. Then, finally, he saw Aramis's finger tighten and tensed reflexively in expectation of the resultant shot.

He wasn't ready though, for the fury of sound and spark and smoke that followed as the barrel exploded into jagged, angry shards of metal that sent him flinching back, away from… _Aramis!_ Wide, panicked eyes looked in the direction his friend had been standing.

Aramis hadn't yet registered the explosion when his bottom landed in the dirt. His senses were too busy attempting to process the brightness of the flame and the force of the concussion that had thrown him off his feet.

He still hadn't registered as he blinked several times, trying to clear the white flash of fire from his vision. So he simply settled for clenching his eyes shut tightly as the sting of the smoke set in, making them water. Flopping down onto his back, he tried to focus instead on piecing together what had just happened.

"Aramis!" he heard Porthos shout, and considered opening his eyes again to find his friend. _Never mind, if I just stay still, he'll find me,_ he finally decided, as an ache began building behind his streaming eyes that made him reluctant to open them to the daylight.

"Porthos!" he heard several other voices shout. He registered the names that belonged to some of them—Athos, Treville, d'Artagnan, Serge—but the rest flowed past as his mind grew sluggish and dull. _The barrel exploded,_ he finally registered, as the last of his consciousness slipped away in darkness.

oOoOoOoOo

Consciousness returned by way of a dull ache behind his eyes, and Aramis moaned his disapproval of it. He tried to lift his hand to cover them and block out the flickering light reflecting off his closed eyelids. The hand was unexpectedly cumbersome, though, so he let it drop back to the bed and settled instead on turning his head away.

"Easy," he heard Porthos soothe, and felt a big hand card through his hair. "Athos…"

Aramis sighed as the light dimmed, not a lot, but enough for him to risk cracking his eyes open to see his friend sitting beside him. "What…" he croaked, grimacing as fire laced up his throat.

"'ere, this will help," Porthos offered, easing the hand in Aramis's hair down to lift his head up and pressing a cup to his lips.

Aramis sipped at the water, wincing as he swallowed, but the burning eased, so he swallowed once more before turning his head away from the cup. Letting his eyes fall shut, he could practically hear Porthos frown as his head was eased back onto the pillow. "Jnminnnt," he murmured in response to it.

"You catch that?" he heard Athos inquire, flatly, and felt the shift of Porthos's hand as he shrugged in reply.

"Jus..need…min…ute," Aramis repeated, licking his lips as he pressed his head back into the pillow as though he could force the lingering ache out into the feathers.

"Easy," Porthos repeated, as Aramis gave up his effort and tried again to cover his eyes with a hand that was caught and laid gently on his chest.

The gesture registered as odd, even through the distracting ache, and Aramis forced his eyes open again. Though barely a slit, it was enough to make out the bandage encasing his hand, and his brow furrowed. _What…?_

Alarm opened his eyes wider as he fixed his gaze upon Porthos. "'t happened…?" he croaked.

"Turns out your gut was spot on, as usual," Porthos answered softly, in deference to the pain behind his friend's eyes. "Was something off with that pistol… Barrel exploded."

Aramis closed his eyes again as he processed the news. Licking his lips as he thought, he attempted to piece together his memory—Adele, the maid returning the pistol, it feeling…off. He'd decided to fire it… _right?_ Then flash and smoke and he was landing in the dirt, his eyes stinging from the smoke, his head spinning, and then…nothing.

Aramis pressed his head back into the pillow once more, as much in an effort to quell his rising fear as to disperse the ache behind his eyes. He'd seen men lose fingers, eyes, ears, when a carelessly loaded pistol's barrel exploded. _You've seen men walk away with nary a scratch, too,_ he reminded himself, though it provided little comfort. The bandage on his hand ensured he had not walked away without _some_ damage. So the question was how much damage had been done and did he still have a career?

 _Just ask,_ Aramis told himself, but he couldn't quite convince his mouth to actually form the words. So, instead, he focused inward and tried to assess the damage himself. It was difficult to push past the incessant ache in his head, but once he had, Aramis felt the sting of burns on his face and neck and a few shallow cuts.

 _Not too bad, I think,_ he assured himself. It may have been a false memory induced by false hope, but he seemed to recall dropping his head as the barrel burst, and thus his hat had caught the worse of it. _I expect I have it to thank for my vision, as well,_ he then mused, abruptly registering that he had, indeed, peered at his bandaged hand with two, undamaged eyes. _Ears are still there, too,_ he determined, smiling a little. _So, not horribly disfigured, at least. That'll be helpful if…_ The smile faded.

The bandage around his hand was tight and seemed to muffle whatever pain he was sure he should be feeling there. _Burned?_ He couldn't tell, and it troubled him. _Perhaps there is nothing to feel…_ he couldn't help consider, and he swallowed hard at the thought. His hand would have gotten the worse of it, and if the damage were bad enough…

Needing to know, Aramis attempted to move fingers he hoped still existed. A burst of fiery pain raced through his hand as it twitched, stealing the air from his lungs. But he smiled, all the same. Whatever the damage was, he still had his hand—that, at least, was certain. _But what of my fingers?_

He tried again to move them. Biting his lip as fire laced through his hand once more, Aramis attempted to concentrate on the pain, attempted to determine where, exactly, it originated and what sort of pain it was. But it was no use. He was too tired and his head ached too much and the fire burned too hot when he twitched his fingers…

"Stop moving it!" Porthos grumbled as he carded his hand through Aramis's curls again. His voice sounded grim, and it made Aramis swallow hard against the dread settling in the pit of his stomach.

Forcing his eyes open again, he found Athos had joined Porthos by the bed, and now both peered down at him serious and glum—and his stomach sank. He wanted to close his eyes again, to sleep and run away from it all. But, instead, he fixed his gaze on Athos—he would be more stoic about it, whatever the news was, and that would make it easier for Aramis to be stoic, as well.

"Damage?" he finally forced out.

Athos gaze flickered to his hand, and then back again. "Between the burns from the powder and cuts from the splintered barrel, it's not pretty sight," he announced, just as matter-of-factly as Aramis had expected. "But…" Aramis felt a surge of hope. He swallowed hard to push it down, not daring to let it take hold. "And only God knows how, you managed not to break any bones or lose any fingers."

The relief shuddered through Aramis with enough force that Porthos frowned in concern as he tucked the blankets more snugly around his wounded friend. Aramis smiled his appreciation at the effort, though it had not been cold affecting him.

"The surgeon says you'll still have full use of it—the hand," Porthos added, in response to Aramis's smile. "Provided you give the burns and cuts a proper chance to heal," he continued. "And that means, quit moving it!"

Aramis nodded, still smiling as relief drained away the fear-driven adrenaline that had kept him awake. Eyes drooping closed, he relaxed back into his pillow, content to slip back into sleep. But before he could, his thoughts drifted to Adele and the pistol, and his brow furrowed.

"Aramis?" Porthos asked in response. "You hurtin'? Need something?"

Aramis shook his head. He was hurting, but that wasn't the problem. "Just thinkin'," he murmured drowsily.

"Well, stop," Athos ordered. "You need sleep, not thought, at the moment."

"He's right," Porthos agreed. "You're in no state for thinking clearly right now, anyway."

Aramis smiled, nodding slightly, but kept thinking all the same.

"All right!" Porthos huffed. "What is it, then?"

"I was just wondering, can't help thinking," Aramis murmured disjointedly, too sleepy now for coherency. "Maybe…not an accident?"

"Mmmm," he heard Athos hum, before Porthos added, "the Cardinal, you thinking?"

"Mmmm," Aramis responded, echoing Athos. "Maybe, if he found out…" He paused for a jaw-cracking yawn, then continued, "Perhaps didn't even know who he hoping to hurt…"

Porthos frowned, before attempting to translate the sleepy murmuring. "You mean, you're thinking that maybe the Cardinal found the pistol and realized Adele had a lover, and then sabotaged it to get revenge?"

Aramis yawned again as he replied, "Never…really…know…guess," before falling into a dream of Adele. He frowned as the Cardinal wandered into the image and glared at him, smirking ominously as he wrapped a hand around Adele's throat a pulled her to him.

Aramis flailed, trying to reach her, but unable to get his feet to move. His breath quickened with desperation, his heart began to pound furiously, but then a large hand carded through his hair.

"Ssh. No more thinkin', just sleep." It was hardly more than a whisper, but it blew through the images of the Cardinal and Adele as though they were no more than smoke, quickly dispersed by the wind, and Aramis sighed, contentedly, trusting the hand in his hair and the voice on the breeze to keep him safe as he drifted deeper into dreams where ghosts could not find him.

The end.


	3. Ep2 Unfinished Business

Title: Unfinished Business

By Karri

Summary: Aramis worries about the trouble they may have caused for Constance. Missing scene for s01e02 Sleight of Hand.

oOoOoOoOo

Aramis hesitated as they turned to follow d'Artagnan. He'd seen that look in a husband's eyes before—the look currently clouding Bonacieux's visage. It bespoke a small man whose pride had been wounded and needed to reassert its superiority. Most often, in Aramis's experience, the result spelled pain for a wife—bruises, at the least, but sometimes broken bones, or worse. It was a husband's right, of course, to deal with his wife as he pleased (short of murder.) That didn't mean that Aramis had to like it, though, especially when the wife was Constance.

He hadn't known her long, certainly not long enough to claim to know her well. Still, Aramis felt an ever growing respect and admiration for her feisty spirit, her strong will, and her quick wits. He hated the idea of any of that being dimmed because they had upset Bonacieux, and then her left to his mercy.

His duty at this moment, though, was to protect d'Artagnan. Something he was reminded of as the shouts of Red Guardsmen rang through the streets, followed by the sound of gunshot. Worry for d'Artagnan pushing aside all other concerns, Aramis raced after his brothers in search of their young spy.

They found him in an alley just a few streets away, bodies of Red Guardsmen strewn about his feet. It was impressive—taking on the soldiers by himself and coming out the unscathed victor—but Aramis didn't waste time remarking on it. Now that the immediate threat to d'Artagnan had passed, concern for Constance began to creep back to the forefront of his thoughts.

Aramis tried to ignore the growing knot of worry as he and Athos took care of the dead Guardsmen, but once that task was completed, he found himself twitching with the need to check on Constance. Perhaps he was wrong about Bonacieux—Aramis dearly hoped he had misjudged the man; he could not rest this night without being certain, however.

"Can you manage Treville without me," he asked Athos, smiling only a little at the raised eyebrow he received in response. "I've some urgent business to attend to," he explained, keeping it vague for the sake of being politic. There was no need, after all, to alarm anyone else when it was entirely possible the threat was purely imagined. _And even if it isn't, I do not think Constance would appreciate her private affairs being made public._

Athos rolled his eyes, but simply nodded his reluctant assent, before disappearing down the street in the direction of the garrison. Aramis waited a minute before turning back toward Bonacieux's, just in case Athos's curiosity got the better of him, and then hurriedly retraced his steps.

He slowed as he neared the house. It was late; Aramis didn't want to disturb the couple if they had retired to bed. The house remained as lit up as it had been when they departed, though, so he decided one of them, at least, was still awake. All the same, he approached the door as silently as possible, listening for any sounds of disturbance. He heard none and paused uncertainly outside the door.

 _What if I am wrong? I will be disturbing them, AGAIN, for naught,_ he considered. _But then, what if I am right? I may only make it worse for her by interfering._ Aramis sucked in a deep, fortifying breath. _No, I cannot leave until I am certain we have not put her in harm's way._

With his resolve solidified, Aramis knocked. Constance answered the door, and he frowned, despite his intention to smile politely; the red marks on her cheeks were barely visible in the flickering light, but were plain enough to searching eyes.

"Aramis? What has happened?" he heard her ask, sounding alarmed, and he pulled his attention away from her cheeks to meet her eyes. They were filled with worry. _She heard the shot, and now I am at her door looking grim. I'll have her thinking d'Artagnan is dead in a moment._

Aramis managed a smile, then, trying for both charming and polite. "Your pardon, Con...Madame Bonacieux," he corrected, as Bonacieux came out to see to whom Constance was speaking. "Nothing of note has happened. I did not mean to alarm you."

His smile fell away as Bonacieux charged up behind his wife, chin high and feathers ruffled, and demanded, "What do you want, now?"

"I bed your pardon, Monsieur," Aramis offered, with a bow and a flourish of his hat. "If I may..." he hinted, and Constance shifted to allow him entrance.

"Well..." prodded Bonacieux, once Constance had closed the door behind the Musketeer. He tapped his foot when an answer was slow in coming.

Aramis, though, would not be rushed. _I must be certain not say anything that will make the situation worse; yet he must be made aware that this will not be tolerated..._ He watched his own foot tap the floor once, before settling on an approach and looking up to meet Bonacieux's impatient glare.

"I have come to apologize," he explained. "My companions and I were remiss in our duty, being forced to depart before properly concluding our business here. Let me say how wretched we feel for quite unintentionally and most unfortunately involving you and your gracious wife in this complicated affair. I assure you, on my honor as a musketeer, that it will all be explained to your satisfaction once matters have been fully settled. In the meantime...," Aramis paused a moment, uncertainly, but then pushed forward. "I wanted to be certain that you send word to the garrison should your entanglement in all this business cause you any trouble that might endanger your health or security in any way," He shifted his gaze from Bonacieux to look directly at Constance. Catching her eye, he glance at the lingering redness on her cheek, then back into her eyes again, and could see she knew what he had seen when he added, "I assure you, we are at your service night or day, should the need for protection arise."

"I should think so," huffed Bonacieux. He opened his mouth to say more, but Aramis shifted his eyes upward and met Bonacieux's gaze unflinchingly, then flicked his eyes back to Constance's cheeks, before returning his gaze to her husband, with a the look in his eyes that was cold and threatening. The glower quickly cowered the peacock, and Bonacieux shoulders wilted. "Fine, then," he stated, somewhat meekly, but then his chin rose again, and he added, "You've passed on your message. Now if you would not mind, it is late..." He waved an arm grandiosely toward the door. "Constance, show the man out."

Bonacieux bowed slightly, remembering his manners, but did not wait for a reply before turning his back to them and departing the room with a sharp slam of a door.

Constance smiled apologetically at the rudeness, before following Aramis to the door. "I should apologize..."

"Do not apologize for him, Constance," Aramis interjected. "He is a grown man, and so responsible for his own behavior."

Constance dipped her head, but said nothing.

"Are you alright?" Aramis asked, one finger softly caressing the fading red blotch upon her cheek. Constance raised her eyes to meet his as she gently pulled his hand down.

"I am alright," she confirmed. "Though I admit I feel somewhat badly now for my treatment of you earlier..."

Aramis smiled at the reference to being slapped not once, but twice, by her that day. "I assure, Madame, no lasting damage was done."

Constance smiled wanly. "And I can say the same," she assured. "Truly!" she added, as his glance shifted again to her cheeks.

Aramis nodded. "I shall bid you adieu, then, Madame," he bade, with a bow and extravagant flourish of his hat.

Constance caught his sleeve, though, as he turned to go. "Thank you," she whispered.

"Any time, night or day, Constance," replied Aramis. He waited until she nodded before pulling away; then he turned back toward the garrison.

The end.


	4. Ep3 A Shoulder Where Needed

**Title: A Shoulder Where Needed**

By Karri

Rating: G

Summary: The events of the day finally catch up to Aramis. S01E03-Commodities tag

 _oOoOoOoOo_

"You planning on tucking me in?" Porthos asked, as Aramis followed him into his room and closed the door. Setting aside his gear, Porthos shrugged out of his uniform, before turning a chair to face his friend and dropping down into it.

Aramis quirked his head and smiled in weary amusement. "Nothing so extravagant as that, my friend. I would simply like to have a look at my fine needlework one last time," he replied. "We _have_ had a bit of excitement today; I'd like to be certain all is still as it should be."

Porthos hesitated a moment, and then nodded, too weary to debate the necessity of it.

"I'll be quick about it," Aramis assured with another smile, this time an appreciative one. "I won't even make you strip out of that shirt." The last favor was decided as Aramis watched his friend's head droop sleepily. _We let him do too much today. Between the loss of blood, the pain, and the ghosts dredged up by Bonnaire, Porthos is beyond exhausted,_ he judged, then admitted, _I certainly am, and my day was easy by comparison._ His mind drifted then to his own ache, and he hesitated. _Perhaps, I should just let him be_.

Ordinarily, Aramis would have trusted the skill of his needlework-and Porthos's strength-and left the man alone to collapse into bed, but the wound _had_ been life threatening. On top of that, Porthos had already torn the stitches once and had, most certainly, been sufficiently busy since to have done so again.

 _No, I had better be certain,_ he quickly resolved, striding over to the chair. _It would not do to have the wound fester because I was too soft-hearted to pester him._ Aramis tugged the sleeve of Porthos's shirt away so that it slid a little down his shoulder. Then, he eased a finger under the loose bandage, deciding to settle for a peek. _If all is well, that is all I will need. If all is not well..._ He did not bother finishing thought. _A bridge to cross if I must..._

He smiled as he managed enough of a glimpse to see that the stitches had held. Aramis caressed the skin alongside the wound as he slid he finger out from beneath the bandage. _No undue heat or swelling; that is good,_ he judged, before settling the bandage with a pat and stepping back.

"We good, then?" Porthos's asked, drowsily.

"We're good," Aramis replied. "So let's get you tucked into bed, then, shall we?" he added, and bit back a chuckle as Porthos turned his head enough to glower at him.

"A hand up is all you get," Porthos growled. "I'll manage the rest myself, thank you."

"As you wish," Aramis acquiesced laughingly, as he offered his friend a hand and helped ease him to his feet. Porthos shoved away from him as soon as his feet were beneath him, propelling himself toward the bed...and Aramis into the chair, the ache in his back throwing his balance off just enough that he was unable to keep his feet. _Hmm...it is not quite comfortable,_ he acknowledged, as the landing sparked a quick burst of flame in his lower back. Yet as it died back down to a dull, throbbing ache, and the weariness in legs objected to the passing thought that he should stand up again and go, he decided, _it will do for a few minutes...just long enough to gather the strength to gain my feet._

"You don't have some prior engagement to get off to?" Porthos asked, as he flopped onto the bed belly first and turned his head to find Aramis still sitting. "I figured you must, with your eagerness to get Bonnaire to Paris."

Aramis frowned. _My eagerness...,_ he mused, but then comprehension struck. _Ah! Because I insisted we go without Athos._ "No, my friend," he answered aloud, "I've no prior engagement this evening." _Nor would I be up to it if I did,_ he added to himself, shifting straighter in the chair as his back twinged unhappily.

Porthos cracked open eyes that had fallen shut and peered at his friend with bewilderment. "Then why'd you want to get back here so bad?"

"I didn't," Aramis replied, shrugging. "But Athos clearly had an urgent need to be rid of us, so..."

The puzzlement in Porthos's expression increased. "So...wasn't that all the more reason to wait for him?"

Aramis laughed and conceded, "Perhaps. But had it been me, forced to revisit my past with the lot of you looking over my shoulder, I think perhaps I would have wished to be rid of everyone, as well." Porthos frowned. "We all have things in our past that we're loath to remember, let alone share..."

Porthos's gaze lingered on him a moment longer, then grunted, "Yeah," he let his eyes slip closed again.

"Besides, there was too much alcohol available there."

Porthos 's eyes didn't open again, but he raised an eyebrow at this, provoking an amused smile as Aramis admitted, "Bonnaire was handful enough with four of us; down to three still fit and fine, I don't think we could have managed _both_ of you in your cups _and_ him."

Porthos pushed his eyes open at this, but Aramis interrupted before he could object, " You might have dealt with the pain all right without a bottle, or kept from killing Bonnaire, but managing both at the same time, while being forced to sit and watch Athos brood... " He shrugged, and Porthos sighed his agreement of Aramis's assessment. "Especially with..." Aramis started to say, but then stopped himself. Porthos didn't know about his sore back, and he wasn't about to complain to a man who had taken an ax to the shoulder about a niggling little thing like that.

Porthos's eyes had fixed on him, though. "Especially with what?"

"Especially with your own ghosts making an appearance," Aramis deflected. "No, it was better that we get on with things, and let Athos do what he needed to do on his own."

"Hmph," Porthos grunted, frowning at the answer but too weary to press the matter. His eyes sliding shut, his displeasure melted away into sleep.

Aramis smiled wanly, pleased that his friend had finally given in to his exhaustion. _I should do the same,_ he told himself. _Just have to get out of this chair first..._ As weary as his legs were, sitting again seemed to fan the dull ache in his back into a flame. The fire was not quite hot enough yet, though, to force him into action, and he decided, _I'll just close my eyes for a moment..._

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

Aramis roused back to wakefulness with a grimace as the fire in his back surged into an inferno, raging across his flank and down into his hips. He looked around blearily, unable to quite place himself until his gaze fell on Porthos. The big man had rolled away from him, onto his uninjured side, sufficiently untroubled by his wound to be snoring soundly. There was no way to tell, though, how long either of them had been asleep.

 _Long enough to grow stiff, that's for certain,_ Aramis acknowledged with a sigh. He dreaded the thought of trying to stand now. _It'll be worse for me in the morning if I stay in this chair, though,_ he reminded himself, and considered, just for a moment, simply sliding onto the floor to sleep. _No,_ he sighed to himself, thinking better of it. _Porthos will only worry if he wakes up to find me sprawled on his floor, and that won't do. He has his own injury to deal with._

Resolved, Aramis sucked in a deep breath, bit his lip to stifle any gasps or moans, and pushed himself upright—well, almost upright. Much to his chagrin, he found himself stooped over like some worn out old man. Aramis's gaze wandered over to the bed, as he let out his breath, and he smiled a little in relief that Porthos had not woken to witness the event. _I may indeed be getting too old for all this, but I don't need him rubbing it in,_ he thought, ruefully, and refocused on his feet as he shuffled slowly toward the door.

 _At least I slept long enough that the garrison will all be in their beds; I don't need think I care for any other witnesses to my old age, either,_ he mused with irritation, unwilling in his weariness to cut himself slack for what he was certain could not be more than a minor bit of bruising.

Aramis nearly toppled himself as he pulled open the door, but managed to hobble out and close it again without waking Porthos. Thus, he rested his head against the door in relief. It was a short-lived sentiment, though, for as he pushed away from the door and turned toward his own room, he spotted a figure seated at the table below.

 _Athos._ He sighed softly. He had hoped his friend would shake off the demons his visit home had awoken by the time he returned to Paris. _Clearly, he has not._

Aramis halted at the head of the stairs. _Going down there is going to hurt – a lot,_ he acknowledged with a grimace. _Yet, Athos is brooding here, rather than with a bottle in privacy of his own room. If he's looking for a shoulder rather than a bottle, how can I call myself his friend and brother if I do not offer mine?_

Sucking in a breath to steel his resolve yet again this day, Aramis gripped the balustrade tightly. He breathed his deep breath out; another, in, then bit his lip and began his slow, hobbling way down the stairs. _Please, do not let him hear me and turn. The last thing he needs is to be worrying about some trifling stiffness rather than clearing his head._

He let out a sigh of relief as he reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped onto level ground without notice. He mentally kicked himself promptly after as the soft sound brought Athos's head up, and he turned. Smiling to hide a grimace, Aramis straightened and bobbed his head in greeting. "Athos."

Athos returned the greeting with a nod before turning back to gaze contemplative at the table once more. Aramis bit back his relief at this, letting his shoulders stoop once more as he shuffled to the table. The thought of sitting, and then having to rise again, nearly brought tears to his eyes, so he settled instead for leaning one arm nonchalantly (he hoped) on the table.

"You're up late," he remarked to Athos.

Athos ghosted a smile as he replied, "Pot, kettle."

Aramis chuckled. "Yes, but in _my_ defense, I fell asleep chatting with Porthos and was then headed to my own bed. You?

Athos frowned, and for a moment Aramis doubted he'd say much more, but then...

"I made it to my bed, but then a bottle started calling me," Athos confessed. Aramis quirked his head, but said nothing. "I thought to drink it, but then I saw d'Artagnan's face as he nearly got himself killed dragging my drunk ass out of my burning house last night and thought perhaps I shouldn't drink it."

Aramis raised an eyebrow. _That is a tale that will need telling,_ he mused, but continued to say nothing aloud.

"And then I realized," Athos continued, "that what I really needed was to do some thinking, rather than to dull my thought and lull myself into sleep."

"And that brought you here?" Aramis asked, intrigued.

Athos shrugged. "It seemed better to remove myself from temptation before I lost my resolve," he admitted.

Aramis smiled. "Indeed. Should I leave you to your thinking, or would you prefer some company?"

Athos glanced up and stared at him a moment, seemingly undecided, but then patted the bench beside him. "Please. I am lousy company, but if you don't mind the silence, I wouldn't mind company that is not a ghost." His winced at his own words, then, as though he'd given away something he hadn't intended, and quickly shifted his gaze back to the table.

Aramis said nothing as he eased himself down, intent on doing so as normally as possibly lest his friend notice his infirmity. Sparks flew up his spine and into his hips as he sat, but he stubbornly pushed the pain to the back of his mind as he focused on his friend.

"We all have ghosts, Athos. There is no shame in it," he assured. Athos glowered at this, and Aramis wondered if the man would counter him. But Athos did not. Instead, his expression softened as he turned to face Aramis.

"You obeyed my order," he stated.

Aramis's brow furrowed a moment as he struggled for context. Then, he realized what order Athos spoke of, and he frowned, wondering if Athos, like Porthos, faulted him for leaving the man behind and heading to Paris with Bonnaire.

"I was afraid you wouldn't," Athos then stated, easing Aramis's doubt. "I was afraid...I..." He felt silent then and looked away. Before Aramis could think of something to say to fill the void, Athos spoke again. "Why?"

Aramis raised a brow and asked, uncertainly, "Why...Why did I go ahead without you?"

Athos nodded.

"As I said, we all have ghosts, my friend," Aramis reiterated. "And I , for one, would not relish being forced to confront my own so abruptly in the middle of a mission, with an audience on hand to witness it."

Athos turned at this, met his gaze, and nodded. "Thank you."

Aramis nodded in reply, and then his own gaze fell to the table as he pondered the difficulty of rising again now that Athos seemed ready to dismiss him. Beside him, Athos rose, and Aramis bit back a sigh, knowing he could not delay much longer. But then, to his surprise, his friend shifted to his other side and grabbed hold of his arm.

"Here, let me help you," Athos insisted, and Aramis glanced up. His friend smiled knowingly. "I'm sober at the moment, remember," he quipped, raising an eyebrow. "Did you really think I wouldn't notice that you can hardly walk?" Aramis grimaced, as Athos continued. "You barely made it down on your own, so unless you intend to stay the night here, you had better let me help you back up again."

Aramis did not bite back his sigh this time. In fact, he made a conscious effort to make it sound as put-upon as possible, but Athos only smirked at it, and so he acquiesced. Using the table for support and with Athos's steadying hold, Aramis eased to his feet more easily than he'd expected. He intended to straighten, not quite willing to stoop in front of an audience, but Athos pulled an arm over his shoulder before Aramis could manage it.

Aramis glanced up, intended to object, but the look in Athos's eyes stopped him. Aramis couldn't quite define what it was – _affection, exasperation, concern, relief, they all seem to be swirling there_ , he mused, but then decided, _even my pride is too tired for much more tonite. If Athos can forego a bottle in favor of a shoulder, it would seem the least I can do to accept his when offered._ Leaning on his friend, he let Athos take charge as they made their way slowly to Aramis's room. He tried to disentangle when they reached the door, but Athos merely tightened his grip.

"I'm a grown man, my friend. I'm certain I can tuck myself into bed," Aramis huffed, wearily, ignoring the echo of Porthos that sounded in his mind.

"I am sure you can," Athos replied neutrally, "just as I am certain that you'll simply fall into bed fully clothed and hope to feel better on the morrow." He raised an eyebrow, challenging Aramis to dispute the statement. Aramis, however, simply dropped his head and began divesting himself of weapons, belt and sash.

Athos stood aside and let him manage on his own, until it came time to strip off his uniform. Then, Aramis found his friend's hand pulling off the uniform before he had a chance to even attempt it. Once finished, those same hands were guiding him to the bed and offering support as he eased himself down. He started to bend, thinking to remove his boots, but Athos's hands stopped him.

Kneeling down, Athos tugged the boots off with surprising gentleness, before peering up at Aramis. "Do you need help turning onto your belly?" he asked, his tone neutral.

Aramis shook his head, before replying. "I can manage."

Athos hovered as he settled, then Aramis felt hands pushing up his shirt and heard a whistle. "That good, is it?" he quipped.

Athos chuckled ruefully, before replying. "It is certainly an impressive array of color. What happened?"

"Before Porthos was struck down, one of the scoundrels managed to whip me with a chain," Aramis explained. "I don't think it did any real damage," he assured, sleepily. Now that he was settled on his belly, the fire had diminished to an ignorable level, and the last of Aramis's reserves seemed to flicker out with it. "Just a little stiff and bruised..."

Athos clucked under his breath, before replying, "I'll say..." He paused, and Aramis could feel his hand hovering over his back."

"Don't!" he huffed, turning his head a little to glare at the man. Athos raised an eyebrow at him. "Don't touch it! Leave it be and let me sleep!"

Athos smiled a wan half-smile as he raised his hands in surrender and backed away. Aramis closed his eyes then and drifted in semi-awareness as the door open and closed. It opened and closed again sometime later, but he had drifted deeply enough by then not to notice, until a cold weight sent a flare of pain surging through his flank. "Aaay!" he cried, arching up, but Athos hands quickly pressed him down again.

"Peace, Aramis," he placated, as Aramis pinned him with another glare. "It is only a little ice," Athos explained. "You'll thank me for it when you try to get out of bed tomorrow."

Aramis considered tossing the bundle of ice back at his friend, but a stern glower from Athos had him thinking better of it. _He's right, anyway,_ he admitted to himself, but huffed, all the same, before turning his head away. He turned it back again, though, as he heard Athos's steps shuffle away from bed, but did not hear the door open again.

"You staying?" he asked, sleepily, when he found Athos settled on the floor a few feet away.

"Might as well," Athos yawned in reply. "Too tired to think anymore, no alcohol in your room to tempt me, and none of my ghosts will think to find me here, so..."

Athos yawned again, a jaw-cracking yawn that made Aramis smile as he said, "Good night, then."

"Good night," came a drowsy reply from the floor.

A moment later, two voices whispered in unison, "Thank you!"

The end.


	5. Ep4 Fading Away

Fading Away

By Karri

Rating: PG

Summary: S1E4 – Good Soldier tag. Once again, the events of the day catch up to Aramis, but his friends are there to get him through it.

oOoOoOoOoOo

 _"I'm sorry, old friend."_

Aramis had meant it - to the furthermost depths of his soul, he had meant it. He hated that it had been his bullet that killed his friend, but... Equally, he was relieved.

 _Marsac was done-with running, with guilt...with life._ _He wanted to die; he wanted me to kill him. He wasn't subtle about it; either in his words or in his actions, when he said it ended there and then purposely misaimed his shot at me,_ Aramis told himself.

So, Aramis had obliged his old friend. He had killed him, and it grieved him to have done it. _Yet, had it been anyone else, they wouldn't have held him as he died or looked him in the eye and allowed him to call himself a musketeer. No, as bitter as the end was, there could have been no better outcome,_ he reminded himself.

 _Marsac died a musketeer,_ Aramis thought, proudly. _Perhaps, I could have tried harder; perhaps I could have talked him down, found a way to disarm him, something...something that would have saved his life, but the reprieve would only have been temporary, and it would have deprived him of that honor._

 _"Marsac's spirit died in that forest in Savoy, five years ago. Just took this long for his body to catch up."_

Aramis had meant that, as well. He wondered, sometimes, if his own had also died there. _Am I just a ghost, masquerading as a living man? Playing a part until my body finally catches up to my spirit?_

The thought spun around his mind, and suddenly, Aramis stopped walking. He couldn't face the garrison; he couldn't face his brothers – their concern, their sympathy... their belief that he was alive.

 _But I am alive!_ He reminded himself, and just as abruptly needed to be with his brothers, to see the concern in the eyes, to receive their sympathetic pats...to feel their assurance that he was _not_ a ghost.

Yet, the previous thought still lingered, warring with the latter and leaving him paralyzed with indecision. Thus, he stood, stock still, in the middle of the street - oblivious to the glances of the people dashing past as they sought shelter from the rain; oblivious to the rain itself. It dripped off his cloak and the hat still held in his hand. It dripped, too, from his hair, down his back. It ran in rivulets down his leathers and into his boots. It splashed against his face and chest, meandering down until the inside of his shirt was as wet as the outside of his cloak.

"Aramis?" a voice called, but he was oblivious to that, as well.

"Aramis!" the voice called, again, and hand touched his shoulder. Aramis started slightly as the touch brought him back to awareness. Then, he winced, as much at the depth of the concern in d'Artagnan's eyes, as the amount of rain dripping off the front of the cloak the young man had pulled over his head.

"Aramis, come inside!" d'Artagnan insisted, with a tug on his arm. "You're soaked through! And I will be, too, if we're out here much longer..."

Aramis followed, more out of habit than conscious choice, and realized, with the abruptness with which his thoughts seemed to flow at moment, that he'd stopped near the well that stood outside Bonacieux's.

"Come on!" Constance urged from the doorway, before making way for d'Artagnan to dash inside. Quickening his pace, Aramis soon slipped past her, as well, to stand dripping in her kitchen.

"Don't just stand there making a puddle on my floor!" Constance scolded, pulling out a chair for him, and then, when he didn't move, taking him by the hand and pulling him over to it. "Sit!" she insisted. "No, wait!" she added, before he could move. "Hat! Cloak!" she demanded, holding her hand out for both. "Then that soggy uniform, if you please. You've already soaked my floor; no need to soak the furniture, as well."

Aramis complied, numbly. Handing over his hat and cloak, he started at the ties of his leathers, as Constance's voice streamed on in the background.

"And why weren't you wearing this?" she demanded, as she hung his hat beside the door. "It does your head no good when it's in your hand." Without waiting for a response, she continued on in a low murmur, "Don't know what you were thinking! Catch your death, you will." Then, her voice rose again as she insisted, "Here, let me! We'll never get you out of those wet clothes at that rate."

It was then that Aramis realized his cold fingers weren't making much progress. _I suppose I must be solid, else she couldn't be stripping off my leathers,_ Aramis mused, as her hands made quick work of the ties and catches. _Yet, my mind has grown so foggy all the sudden, I wonder if perhaps I'm not really an spirit about to fade into mist now that I've sent Marsac into the arms of our brothers._

"There we are," announced Constance, and he registered the loss of the leathers' comforting solidity. "Now, sit!" she insisted, all but shoving him down into the chair. "Let's get those boots off you, too. I dread to think about the state of your stockings."

"Thank you, madame, I can manage," Aramis insisted, chivalry clearing the fog in his brain a bit as he realized that Constance intended to remove his boots for him.

"You'd better dump the water outside so they can dry," Constance instructed d'Artagnan, as the boots slowly came off and were passed along, "and then fetch a dry shirt and a blanket, would you?" Murmuring to herself, she added, "Those trousers aren't _too_ wet, I think. Come on, let's sit you nearer the fire and get you warmed up, and we just might stop you catching the chill you deserve for standing out in the rain like a simpleton."

Then, she was pulling him up, and it seemed to Aramis that he'd wandered back into the fog-or perhaps it was a dream-as he let her guide him nearer the fire and push him down into another chair. The warmth seemed to thicken the fog until Constance's voice seemed more the murmur of a fast-moving stream than a person, and he drifted, contentedly, as her skirts swirled and eddied around him. Until...

"Come on, Aramis!" a voice prodded, as a hand lightly shook his shoulder, rousing him enough to glance up into d'Artagnan's concerned, yet exasperated, expression. "Seeing you standing out there in the rain has put Constance in a mothering mood, so don't think she won't march over here and demand you put your arms up so she can change that shirt for you."

Belatedly, Aramis realized his friend had dropped a dry shirt into his lap, and he fumbled with his wet one, as the threat of Constance changing him like a child sank into his muddled brain. It took more effort than he thought it ought, but as Aramis finally managed to pull the dry shirt over his head, before d'Artagnan's jumped in to tug it down for him.

"Here, let me," d'Artagnan's offered, his eyes canting in Constance's direction as he tugged the shirt down for Aramis, before wrapping a soft blanket around his shoulders. "There, that should do it," he murmured, with final pat of on the shoulder, before ambling off to find his own cozy seat, leaving Aramis to sink back into his comfortable fog.

He had just begun drifting quite contentedly when a knock startled him back to awareness, yet again. Aramis bit back a curse at the disruption, but righted himself in the chair, all the same, and shifted to better see the door.

"Not you two, as well!" he heard Constance grumble as she shifted to make way for Athos and Porthos to enter. "Do none of you have enough sense to get in out of the rain?"

"We beg your pardon, Madame Bonacieux," Athos offered, with a slight bow. "Once the Captain returned, we had hoped Aramis would soon follow. But when he did not, we thought it prudent to go in search of him and thought perhaps d'Artagnan might be of assistance," he explained, before casting his eyes on Aramis. Raising a brow at the sight of him, Athos added, wryly, "I see, now, it was unnecessary."

"Well, as you're here now, you may as well make yourselves comfortable," Constance huffed. "At least until the rain lets up. One of you chilled through is quite enough, I should think."

Aramis let himself slump back down into his pleasant fog as the new arrivals bustled around, divesting themselves of hats and cloaks and finding comfortable spots by the fire in which to settle.

"He's more asleep than not," Porthos murmured, ruffling Aramis's damp curls as he passed. "Hope he wakes up when the rain stops. He's heavier than he looks, he is," he added with a chuckle, as he warmed his hands before the hearth.

Not quite drifting enough yet to be oblivious, Aramis considered objecting to the notion that he might need to be carried, but the thought of speaking seemed so...laborious, _and, besides, I cannot be a fading spirit if Porthos is concerned about the weight of me._ So he let it slide, and settled for instead on enjoying the pleasant buzz of voices as Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan chattered with each other.

"The Cardinal..." he thought he heard somewhere along the stream of words, and wondered briefly if he should rouse enough to actually listen. _There's usually something dire in the works when his name comes up,_ Aramis mused. _I should probably be paying attention._

Yet, even that task seemed too laborious at the moment, so Aramis quickly dismissed the thought and drifted away again. He managed, this time, to find a nice, gently current in which to float so contentedly that he hardly noticed when, sometime later—could have been days or minutes... _it's all the same,_ Aramis surmised dreamily—a hand pressed against his forehead.

"Constance," said a voice from far away. "Should he be this warm?"

Aramis wondered, w _ho is warm, and how warm is "this warm", and why is "this warm" bad?_ He was certain that it was bad, though, for the tone of the distant voice had been anxious. _I should wake up and find out why it's anxious,"_ he told himself, but then wondered if he even could anymore. His brain seemed no longer encased by the fog, but to be a part of it. _I think perhaps I am a ghost, afterall,_ _and, now that my task is done, my body HAS faded away,_ he decided, though he couldn't quite muster the energy to be concerned about it.

Another, smaller hand replaced the large hand pressed to his forehead.

"Oh, bother," a softer, but still far away voice cursed. "I knew he'd catch a chill...standing out in the rain like that...drenched to the bone...what was he thinking!" it muttered in one long, continuous stream. Then, a gentle, but louder voice began prodding, "Aramis? Can you wake up for me now, please?"

 _No,_ he thought, because he didn't at all want to wake. _Besides, what point is there in waking when I'll be nothing but a wisp of smoke soon, anyway._ But the gentle voice was kind and patient, and most definitely female, and the gentleman in him insisted that he must, therefore, oblige.

"That's it," the gentle voice encouraged, as he struggled to convince his heavy eyelids to open.

"Constance?" Aramis queried, as his will won the battle, and his eyes squinted open to find a familiar face smiling up patiently.

"Mmm," she murmured in confirmation. "You've managed to catch yourself a fever," she told him in a slow, calm voice.

Aramis's brow furrowed with his attempt to comprehend her words. _How can I have a fever when I'm hardly more than mist?_

"Aramis? Are you with me?" Constance prodded, before glancing to Athos, who'd knelt down beside her to peer into Aramis's face.

"Aramis?" Athos tried, and Aramis frowned a little at the concern in his voice.

The frown deepened as Athos reached up to press a hand to his forehead, and Aramis remembered, vaguely—almost as though he'd dreamed it—other hands pressing against his forehead. _I must still be solid, after all,_ he realized.

"Aramis," he heard again, and this time managed a murmured, "hmmm."

"Ah, there you are," Athos replied, dryly, tossing him a concerned sort of half smile.

Aramis smiled back, tiredly, but it fell away, as he asked, "I'm really here, right?"

Athos brow furrowed in concern as he glanced over his shoulder to Porthos, who answered, "Of course you're here, brother. You thinking of wandering off somewhere else?"

Aramis followed the voice until he met Porthos's eyes, to whom he said, "I thought perhaps my body had gone to catch up to my spirit, but… I'm still solid? I'm still here, right? Still alive…not a ghost…"

Porthos and Athos shared a worried frown, before Porthos attempted a smile, as he responded, "Definitely still solid…a little too solid, perhaps, if I'm gonna have to carry you off to bed."

Aramis smiled, wanly. "Good. Not ready to join my spirit yet…" he murmured, letting his eyes close as he started to drift away.

"Aramis?" Constance prodded, though, and he sighed, wearily, before pushing his eyes open again. "I think, perhaps, it would be best if you just sleep here, in d'Artagnan's bed, rather than wander back out into the damp air to get back to your own, all right?"

A short squawk from above him told Aramis that someone objected to the plan, but the effort of waking and talking had been too exhausting for Aramis himself to object.

"Aramis?" Constance pressed, and he realized he'd closed his eyes again, instead of nodding, as he'd intended. He tried again and managed a weak nod. "Good, good. All right, then, let's get you tucked into bed," she murmured, then paused, and Aramis wondered if she'd decided to have pity on him and leave him be. It was not to be, though, as, after a moment, she asked, "Can you manage it, do you think?"

 _Manage what?_ Aramis wondered, his brow furrowing as he tried to concentrate on the question.

"Aramis?" Constance prodded, again, her voice more urgent than it had been a moment before. "Perhaps the three of you should shift him to the bed, instead," she added, though her voice had begun to grow distant again.

 _Three of you..._ Aramis mused, dreamily, before it clicked in his brain, and he groaned to himself. He then groaned, low, but out loud, as he peeled his eyes open once more and fixed them on Constance, who had stepped away.

"No, no," he huffed, breathlessly. "I can manage it!" _I'm certainly not going to be carried off and tucked into bed like a child._

Aramis could feel Porthos and Athos, and Constance, too, hovering around him as he pushed himself up, but he ignored them in favor of focusing on the task. He was pleased when he managed it with only the slightest wobble at the end.

"I can manage," he growled, as Porthos reached for his arm when he began shuffling, droopily, toward the bedroom.

"All right, then," Constance huffed with relief. "D'Artagnan grab a few more pillows, will you? He'll rest easier if he's sitting up a bit, I think," she instructed, as she tagged along behind.

Aramis was concentrating too much on his feet to notice if d'Artagnan complied, or not. Yet, as he eased himself onto the bed, at last—it had seemed to take a ridiculously amount of time, considering the distance—Aramis found a stack of pillows waiting for him, and settled down into them with a blissful sigh.

"No, no, don't go back sleep yet," Constance insisted, and he prodded his eyes open again to stare at her balefully. She replied with an apologetic smile, smoothing back his curls. "I've started some tea, and I want you to drink a cup before you sleep. I'm just going to go fetch it now. Can you stay awake for me, just for that long?"

 _No,_ he decided, but the earnest worry in her eyes made him nod, all the same. Forcing his head off the pillows, Aramis noticed his brothers had all settled around the room in various spots and were staring at him with unguarded worry…except for d'Artagnan, whose expression seemed as much vexation as concern.

"What's the matter?" Aramis asked, almost managing a proper smile, at the guilty look that flashed in d'Artagnan's eyes. "Come on, out with it," he pressed, when his young friend turned suddenly bashful.

"I was just thinking," he confessed, in a low, embarrassed tone, "about the unfairness of ending up on the floor when I'm the one paying for the bed."

"And you'll be paying double for that," Constance grumbled, tossing a disapproving scowl at her lodger as she came back into the room with a carefully balanced cup of tea. "Friend's burning up with fever and all he's worried about is his rent…," she muttered, darkly, under her breath, as she passed.

"I'm worried about Aramis, too," d'Artagnan responded, his tone somewhere between defensive and apologetic. "I just wish he weren't in my bed, that's all."

"You're welcome to join me," Aramis offered, tossing him a quick smile, before reaching for the cup Constance seemed intent upon holding for him. _He is right about bringing out her motherly nature,_ he decided, as her hands hovered over his, seemingly only barely resisting the desire to let him try to feed himself. He was pleased, though, when he managed, as exhausting as it was, to down the whole cup without assistance. His hand dropped heavily back to the bed when he was done. Too wearied to worry either about the final disposition of the cup, or Constance's feelings, Aramis's grimaced at the aftertaste.

Constance, though, only chuckled. "It's not the best tasting—that's the fault of the yarrow and thyme—but the honey and chamomile made it not so bad as that, I'm certain. Besides, it'll do you more good than bleeding, or whatever else a physician might do to you."

"My apologies, dear madame," Aramis offered, sleepily. "I thank you for both the tea and your kind hospitality," he just managed to add as he drifted off.

oOoOoOoOoOo

Aramis meandered awake much more slowly than he had drifted off. He wandered in a dreamy half-sleep for a fair amount of time, letting the warmth of the room lull him whenever he drew too near consciousness. But, eventually, the sound of snoring and the weight of the hand resting heavily on his chest began to pull at his awareness, dragging him further and further from his comfortable haze, until, at last, he pushed his eyes open.

It was impossible to tell the hour from where he lay. _It must be late, though,_ he thought, as he caught sight of d'Artagnan sleeping in a chair by the dwindling fire, his head fallen back against the wall. A loud, truncated snore brought his gaze, next, to Porthos, who'd apparently been startled awake by Aramis's change of state.

"Hey," Porthos murmured through a yawn as he lifted his head enough to notice Aramis's gaze.

"Hey," Aramis replied, before bringing a hand up to where Porthos's lay on his chest and raising an eyebrow.

Porthos shrugged. "I thought maybe it would be easier to remember that you're solid and alive if you could feel me touching you."

Aramis ducked his head self-consciously.

"Hey, none of that now," Porthos consoled. "We all have our ghosts, remember…"

Aramis raised his head enough to smile appreciatively at his friend, but settled for patting Porthos's hand in appreciation rather than speaking. He was still so very tired…

Fortunately, Athos padded quietly in the room just then, distracting both before any further words were required. Aramis raised an eyebrow, in lieu of asking where his friend had been.

"Just off filling in Treville," Athos announced in low tones, then smiled at the mortified look Aramis tossed him. "Feeling better, I see," he remarked, with a wry chuckle. "You must be if you have the strength for that expression."

Aramis made face, but let the remark slide, otherwise, for fear that another attempt at speaking would sap what little strength he'd regained with sleep.

"Well, you'll be pleased to hear that you'll be stuck with us a while…" Athos grinned as Aramis made another face at him. "Or perhaps not," he murmured, before continuing, "In appreciation for putting the regiment on the Cardinal's good side, for once, Treville has given us a few days off to tend your miserable self."

 _This is a story I HAVE to remember to ask about when I have the strength for it,_ Aramis mused. But rather than ask about it now, he mustered his strength enough to remark, with a good-hearted scowl, "Bunch of lazy shirks… It's just a bit of a chill; doesn't rate one nursemaid looking after me, let alone four."

Porthos laughed, giving him a thump on the chest for good measure. "Looks like you've got us, all the same!"

 _Looks like I do,_ Aramis thought. _And you've got me,_ he added, a smile creeping onto his face as he drifted back into sleep.


	6. Ep4 Fading Away, pt2

When Aramis roused again (enough to be aware of consciousness), it was abrupt, as a low, rumbling bubbled up from his lungs. He winced as the coughing spell took hold in force, awakening a throbbing ache behind his eyes that made him wonder if his brain were trying to burst through his skull.

Finally—after what seemed like forever, but was really minutes—the spell ended, and he collapsed back against his pillows, gasping harshly as he struggled to regain his breath. Beside him, Aramis could hear a voice murmuring words he was sure were meant to be soothing, though he couldn't quite focus enough to comprehend them. Then, a large hand patted his chest, and it centered him long enough to gain control of himself.

"That's it," he heard the voice say. "Just breathe… In and out… That's it." Aramis forced his weary eyes open and smiled weakly at Porthos. "Hey, there," said his friend, barely returning the smile before a yawn displaced it.

"Hey," Aramis croaked, grimacing as he tried to turn his body toward Porthos, only to discover that, while he'd slept, an ache had settled in seemingly every joint.

"None of that, then," Porthos scolded, and stopped patting Aramis in favor of pressing him down lightly. "Fever's only just broken, so you just relax and stay put."

Aramis glowered at him, garnering a chuckle from his friend, but settled back down. Until, from the floor, came a sleepy voice, asking, "He all right?"

Pressing himself higher against the pillows, Aramis intended to lean forward to better see the owner of the voice. But Porthos, a step ahead of him, increased the pressure of his hand on Aramis's chest, holding him in place.

"It's only Athos," he murmured. "And he won't want you getting up on his account, will he?" Porthos added, raising his voice on the last two words.

"He definitely won't," Athos answered on queue and creaked up to his feet in order to reinforce the statement with a stern glare. Once Aramis acquiesced and relaxed again, Athos stretched, yawning broadly. "I heard Constance rattling around in the kitchen; I'll go see if she's started any tea. That seems to help last night.

Aramis's brow furrowed as Porthos nodded. _Last night?_ _I feel like I've not slept at all._

"Constance assured us it didn't taste as bad as all that," he heard Porthos insist and realized his friend had misconstrued his expression.

Tossing him a meagre half-smile, Aramis shrugged. "Not so bad," he began, but then had to pause for breath. "I suppose."

Porthos patted him and winked. "Good, because I think you're in for quite a lot of it. She's been feeling quite maternal toward you, which is better than wanting to slap you, eh?"

Aramis laughed at that, but then grimaced as it sparked a fresh spat of coughing.

"Easy," Porthos soothed. "Sorry, shouldn't have made you laugh," he added, once the coughing had eased, but Aramis waved away the apology.

Worn out, he closed his eyes and listened to sound of d'Artagnan snoring lightly from somewhere on the floor, letting it combine with Porthos's absent-minded pats to lull him back toward sleep.

"Uh, uh," clucked a soft voice, though, rousing him back to wakefulness. Opening his eyes, Aramis found Constance approaching the bed, a cup of tea balanced in her hands. "Not until you've had a bit of tea to ease that congestion, eh. You've been so sleepy that we've hardly gotten anything at all in you the past few days, and now that cough's grown horrid…"

Aramis frowned. _The past few days? Wasn't it just last night that they tucked me into d'Artagnan's bed?_

"None of that, now," Constance scolded, though it was softened by a smile. "It's good for you, and you know it."

Aramis nodded, woefully, too weary to correct her assumption or attempt a charming reply.

"'ere, I've got it," Porthos chimed in, rising up to take the cup from Constance, in lieu of moving out of her way. She hesitated, and he winked at her. "He won't dare put up a fuss for me."

Aramis glowered at that, and Constance chuckled lightly. "All right, then, you make sure he drinks it all before falling back to sleep," she instructed, all but wagging a finger at him.

Porthos nodded, dutifully, as he pledged, "Every last drop."

"Bring the cup out when he's done and have some breakfast," Constance continued. "I can sit with him a bit while you eat."

Aramis opened his mouth to say it wasn't necessary, but a yawning voice from the floor interjected, "Breakfast?" and Porthos laughed.

"Ruled by his stomach, that one," he remarked, as d'Artagnan stretched up off the floor and peered at Constance with hungry eyes.

Constance shook her head at him, ruefully. "Come on, then. Breakfast for you," she said to d'Artagnan, then turned back to Aramis. "And, you, behave now and drink up. You've had us worried to exhaustion," she admonished, before softening her tone and adding, "I can bring you breakfast, too, if you think you can manage it?"

Aramis closed his eyes as he pondered it. His stomach didn't seem to mind the idea of food, but the rest of him… He winced at the thought of all the effort eating would entail.

"Perhaps later, then," Constance suggested, in response to his expression. "After you've rested a bit more." Opening his eyes, Aramis smiled, sleepily, and Constance nodded, accepting that as all the answer she was likely to get. She patted his foot gently, before glancing toward Porthos. "I'll make those two," she shrugged toward the door through which d'Artagnan had just vanished, "leave plenty for you."

Porthos grinned and gave her a short, appreciative nod. Then he turned his attention to Aramis, who frowned at him. Porthos raised an eyebrow in response, to which Aramis raised a hand toward the cup.

"I'll manage," he huffed, earning a shrug from his friend.

Hmmf," Porthos responded, dubiously, but handed over the cup. Aramis noticed his hands lingered, ready to steady the cup when needed.

The tea, though pleasantly warm against his ravaged throat, wasn't too hot. Thus, Aramis drank quickly, fearing his strength would give out before he finished, forcing him to allow Porthos to hold the cup to his lips, after all. He smiled in relief as he swallowed the last drop and lowered the emptied cup into Porthos waiting hands. His eyes drooping, Aramis drifted in semi-awareness while he waited for his friend to wander off in search of his breakfast.

Instead, though, Porthos simply slumped back into his bedside chair, setting the cup on the floor beneath it as he went. Aramis prodded his eyes back open and turned, wincing at the difficulty of it, toward his friend.

"You'll miss your breakfast," he gasped out, frowning at how much effort it took. _She won't be able to fend them off your share indefinitely,_ he'd meant to add out loud, but found he simply did not have the breath for it.

Porthos just waved him off, though. "Not that hungry, anyway."

Aramis attempted to humph in reply, but it turned into a ragged series of coughs that left him too breathless to try again. Eyes closed, he concentrated on gathering himself as Porthos patted his chest anxiously.

"That's it," he could hear his friend murmuring, almost more to himself than to Aramis. "You're doing fine…just breathe."

The worry in Porthos's voice bothered him, so Aramis forced his eyes open again and smiled, wanly, hoping to relieve his friend's distress. Porthos return a grin, though the concern in his eyes remained.

"Be fine," Aramis huffed out, patting his friend's hand as it rested on his chest.

"Course you will," answered Porthos, confidently. Aramis saw an uncertainty in his friend's eyes, though, that made him wonder how much longer he'd been ill than he realized, and just how bad it had gotten before he'd awoken to this blasted cough.

"What it is?" he heard Porthos ask, anxiously, and realized his brow had furrowed disconcertingly as he mused.

Aramis weakly waved away the concern. "'m fine."

The looked Porthos shot him in reply would have made him laugh if hadn't stopped himself for fear of another coughing spell. Aramis grinned, instead. "'k, not fine…be fine, though."

Porthos nodded this time and patted his chest. He frowned, though, as Aramis sucked in another breath deep enough for speaking. "You'll get there faster if you quit chattering and sleep some more," he chided.

Aramis tossed him a weary half-smile, before opening his mouth to speak, anyway. "How long…been sick?"

Porthos's hand began its slow pats again, as he replied, "It's been 3 nights and two days since the fever set in."

Aramis's brow furrowed at that. _I'd swear it was just yesterday that I shot M…_ He stopped himself from finishing the thought, too tired to contemplate that grief again just yet.

"You were awake for some of it, but weren't particularly coherent. Fever was burning too hot," Porthos explained. Aramis nodded, weakly, and let his eyes droop shut. He figured the conversation done now that his question had been answered, but Porthos surprised him by adding, reticently, "I'm sorry…that we weren't there, you know, when…to…for…"

Aramis pushed his eyes open again, brow furrowed, as he watched his friend stumble over his words. Finally, Porthos stopped, took a breath to gather himself, and tried again. "I'm sorry about Marsac." Aramis's gaze dropped to the bed. "I'm sorry that he's dead…that you lost him, whatever he meant to you. And I'm sorry we weren't there…that you had to do it yourself."

Aramis forced his gaze back to Porthos, who was himself now staring at the floor as he continued, "We should have been there… Not just for..." Porthos paused for another deep breath, before stammering on, "We should have been there to stop him. You shouldn't have had to do that yourself, or at least not by yourself."

"Wasn't," Aramis interrupted. "Captain…was there."

Porthos peeled his gaze up from the floor to meet Aramis's eyes. "Yeah," he replied. "But we should have been there, too, not just then, but…" His eyes fell again. "We abandoned you," he finally spat out, bitterly. "We held to our faith in the Captain, walked away from you…and it weren't right! You shouldn't have had to go through this alone. We should have been there!"

"Wasn't alone," Aramis reiterated. Closing his eyes long enough to gather a breath and compose himself, he then met Porthos's eyes, just as his friend raised them up again. "You were there…as much as honor allowed."

Porthos frowned, his brow furrowed in distress. "Honor be damned!"

Aramis smiled wryly. "Honor…a complicated thing, but...what are we without it." Porthos grimaced, and Aramis squeezed his hand, as he sucked in another breath to continue. "I cannot say that I was not hurt…that I did not feel abandoned. Nor can I say…that I fault you for your actions or think…you should have done otherwise. It was a complicated affair…with complicated emotions…that I have yet to sort out…myself, so how could I expect clarity…of you?"

He squeezed Porthos's hand again and waited to see if his friend would respond. Porthos just bit his lip uncertainly, so Aramis continued, "I do not doubt…your loyalty, or love." Porthos smiled, finally, though it was pensive still. "Go, eat," Aramis added, resigned that it was the best he was going to manage from Porthos until the dust had settled a bit longer. He was too spent for more now, anyway. "Goin' sleep," he only just managed, before his grip on Porthos's hand relaxed with sleep.

oOoOoOoOoOo

When he next awoke, it was Constance sitting at his bedside, rather than Porthos. A twinge of disappointment vied with relief. _He was exhausted, needed a break from me._

"Hello, there," he heard Constance's friendly voice chime before he could muse any further on his friend's absence. "It's nice to see those handsome eyes of yours open."

Aramis smiled, wanly, and cleared his throat. "Don't let d'Artagnan hear you…talk like that," he replied, with a wink.

Constance laughed, then replied, "I see you're feeling better, then." She smiled as he nodded, weakly. "Good! I would hate to have chased the fellows away for nothing." Aramis's brow furrowed, and she rubbed his hand in response. "You overtaxed yourself before," she explained. "Porthos had hardly left the room before the fever returned." Aramis frowned, earning a pat from Constance, this time. "Don't worry. I haven't scolded him for wearing you out—as quiet as he was at breakfast, I think you wore him out as much as he did you," she assured. Aramis continued to frown, though, so she patted his hand again. "I simply sent them off after lunch for a bit of exercise and fresh air. They were getting restless with all the waiting and watching, and that was making you restless, I'm certain. You slept much better with them all shooed away." When Aramis's expression remained glum, she added, with a wink, "Supper's nearly ready, though, so I expect they'll be back soon."

Aramis tried to smile, aware that his mood was concerning her, but it morphed into a grimace as a harsh cough burst out, signaling the start of a spell. He was breathless by the end of it. Vaguely aware of a small hand patting his chest, he kept his eyes closed as he reflected on his last conversation with Porthos, and it occurred to him that he, too, owed an apology.

"Here," Constance offered, interrupting his thoughts, and he opened his eyes to find a cup of tea awaiting him. Aramis wrinkled his nose at it, prompting a tolerant smile from Constance. "It's better than coughing up a lung."

Aramis nodded in agreement, pushing himself up higher on the pillows and reaching out to accept the cup. Constance handed it over reluctantly, her hands ghosting over his as he drank.

"There, that wasn't so bad, was it?" Constance soothed, as he let the empty cup fall into her hands. She chuckled as he wrinkled his nose at her, again. "There's some fresh bread and nice beef broth, if you think you're up to it? Would do you good…"

Aramis smiled, appreciatively. He didn't feel especially hungry, but he _did_ feel weak as a kitten. _There'll be no getting my strength back with tea alone,_ he mused, as Constance nodded, looking pleased, and hurried off to fetch the food before he change his mind.

Aramis closed his eyes and let himself drift while she was gone, but regret nagged at him, preventing him from really relaxing. Thus, he nearly sighed with relief at the sound of her footsteps returning. Opening his eyes, he smiled hungrily, as the aroma wafting off the plate reached his nose, prompting a vociferous growl from his stomach.

Constance grinned. "That's a good sign!"

Aramis nodded, but his eyes had fixed on the plate. He ghosted a frown as she set the plate on the chair beside the bed, instead of his in his lap, and sat down beside him.

"None of that, now," Constance cooed, reaching for the bread, breaking off a piece, and soaking it in the broth, before gingerly handing it to Aramis. "There are no witnesses at the moment, so it won't hurt your pride so very much to accept a little help…especially when it spares the risk of broth spilled all over my sheets."

Aramis tossed her a wry half-smile, but bowed with a flourish of his hand, before accepting the soaked piece of bread.

He managed only a third of the loaf before his out-of-practice stomach decided it was done. Apologetically, Aramis raised a hand at the next piece of bread offered him. "My thanks, Constance," he huffed. "But I do not think…I can manage more."

Constance only smiled and patted his hand as it dropped to rest on his chest. "You did better than I expected," she confessed, prompting a wearing grin from Aramis. "Sleep. I'll just set this back in the other room and come sit with you until the fellows return."

Aramis waved a sleepy hand at her. "It's really not necessary," he insisted, but Constance only clucked at him.

"Perhaps not," she agreed. "But I promised Porthos, and I am a woman of my word," she added, with a wink and smile, but it fell promptly away as Aramis's expression fell. "Aramis?" she asked. "Are you ill? I shouldn't have pushed you to eat…"

Aramis shook his head and attempted a reassuring smile, but the remorse in his eyes belied the effort. "'m fine," he assured. "It feels good to have some food in me."

"Mmm," responded Constance. "Your expression does not say fine."

Aramis's gaze fell to the bed, as he sucked in a slow, steadying breath. Then, he raised his eyes again to meet hers. "You just reminded me…that I have been remiss."

Constance raised an eyebrow at that. "Remiss? You have barely been conscious, Aramis. There is very little you expected of you at the moment beyond breathing and sleeping." Aramis not-quite-smiled at that, but it was near enough for Constance, and she patted his hand in relief. "Whatever you think needs doing, it'll wait a bit longer," she added, with one last pat, before turning to pick up the plate.

Aramis gripped her hand, though, instead of letting her go. Turning back to meet his eyes, she frowned at the anguish in them, as he said, "Please, Constance, I must say this now…lest it escape again from my addled brain."

Constance frowned, disapprovingly, but resumed her seat on the bed beside him, allowing him to keep hold of her hand.

"I must apologize," Aramis begged, woefully. "Though my intentions were honorable...they do not excuse my abominable behavior," he lamented. "I lied to you…for which I am truly sorry, and worse yet…spurred d'Artagnan into deceiving you….on my behalf, as well. I put him in an…impossible situation which allowed for…no honorable options. I should never…have involved you. It is inexcusable…," he finished, breathlessly. He wanted to say more, but had run out of both air and energy. _Nor am I coherent enough to express my thoughts properly,_ he sighed to himself. _Still, however sorry an apology is may be, it is better than none at all._

Constance's eyes moistened, and she patted his hand. "You are a good man, Aramis," she responded. "I am certain of that." Aramis's gaze fell to the hand that rested on his. "I cannot say I approve of your actions, but without an understanding of the provocation, I cannot fully judge them, either. As for d'Artagnan… He is a grown man, responsible for his own choices." Aramis looked up, alarmed, but Constance continued, before he could argue. "Don't worry. I have forgiven him, as well," she assured, with a pat. "All is good between him and I, and between you and I, so rest now," she urged.

Aramis smiled, gratefully, though he longed to say more, longed to better explain himself. Constance squeezed his hand in response. "Sleep," she insisted. "If more needs to be said, it can been said later, when you've breath to spare and sufficient strength to charm me into listening. For now, the matter is closed."

"And what matter is this," a voice from the door bellowed, before Aramis could consider a response. Looking up, he smiled weakly at Porthos. "It seems a rather serious subject from the expressions…"

Constance waved away the remark. "I was only saying he should sleep again now that he's had his dinner," she stated.

Porthos grinned. "Getting your appetite back, eh? That's a good sign! Have you back on your feet in no time, now." Striding over, as Constance stepped away from the bed, Porthos patted his friend's hand. "You look half-asleep already," he added. "So be a good guest, now, and do as the lady asked." Aramis raised a heavy eyebrow in question. "Sleep," Porthos clarified, prompting a dreamy half-smile from Aramis.

"You, eat," Aramis murmured, as his eyes fell shut, and he drifted off into sleep.

"Yes! Us, eat!" came an eager voice from the doorway, stealing the attention of both Constance and Porthos away from Aramis and toward d'Artagnan. "It smells delicious!"

"You're right. He is ruled by his stomach," Constance grumbled, with a smile, earning a chuckle from Porthos. "But don't you worry," she added, as he shifted to sit by the bed. "I'll bring you a nice big plate to nibble at before you fall asleep in that chair."

"You are a blessing from above, Madame," Porthos replied, with a bow.

Constance ducked her head appreciatively, blushing a little. Striding out the door, she murmured just loud enough to be heard, "As are the lot of you—a blessing from above I'd hardly know what to do without anymore, however much trouble you bring."

And on the bed, more in a dream than not, Aramis smiled.

The end.


	7. Ep5 Blindfolded

Blindfold

By Karri

Rating: G

Summary: Tag to s1e5 – Homecoming. The gang welcome Porthos back into the fold.

oOoOoOoOoOo

"The drinks are on Athos, so drink up. Drink up!" Aramis urged, shoving another bottle into Porthos hand, before glancing to Athos.

Athos rolled his eyes and shrugged. "Why not… We have all earned a few drinks," he stated, then gazed at Porthos. "Especially you."

Aramis grinned broadly, griping Porthos by the shoulders and giving him a hardy, brotherly thump.

Porthos choked a bit on the brandy he'd been swallowing, but then chuckled. Raising an eyebrow, he asked. "You trying to get me drunk? Cause things didn't go so well last time."

"This time, we're going to see to it that you reach your bed before we leave you…or, at least, someone's bed," Aramis laughed in reply. "Now, come on, drink up."

"You _are_ trying to get me drunk," Porthos's huffed, suspiciously. "Why? What you up to?"

"Just celebrating your return to the fold, brother," Aramis replied. Grinning slyly, he tapped the bottom of the bottle Porthos now held to his lips, urging him to drink up. "Besides, d'Artagnan was quite impressed by our little show last time, so I thought, perhaps we'd welcome you back by putting on another."

D'Artagnan squawked at his, having had quite enough of their shooting trick the first time.

Beside him, Porthos laughed. "Perhaps blindfolded this time, eh," he said, with a wink.

"Why not?" Aramis replied, grinning again. It was an infectious grin that soon had the rest of the party grinning, as well.

"Why not," Porthos responded, slapping his friend on the back. "Shall we?"

"Uh, uh, uh, not yet," remarked Aramis. "You're not nearly drunk enough, yet."

Porthos barked another laugh, but the smile had faded from d'Artagnan's face.

"You can't be serious?" he asked, gaze flickering from Porthos to Aramis, and then to Athos. "Surely, you're not going to let this happen."

Athos, though, merely offered another shrug and an amused, half smile.

"You really are crazy," huffed d'Artagnan. "The whole lot of you!"

His companions all laughed, as he shook his head at them.

"He never misses, you know," Athos reminded him.

"Yes, but there's always a first time," observed d'Artagnan. "And as we only just finished clearly his name of murder, it would seem to me that risking an accidental death isn't worth it…especially when the corpse would be Aramis."

Aramis laughed again. "You worry too much, my friend. Drink up! Enjoy the moment!"

He waved the barmaid over with another round, and the table quieted as they settled into their drinks.

"Enough, let's do this," Porthos's growled, another round later. Pushing himself up from the table, he dragged Aramis up by his collar. "Before I regain my senses enough to decide it's a bad idea…"

Aramis laughed. "Alright, alright. I'll go get us a melon and meet you three in the training grounds."

Porthos raised an eyebrow at that. "Training grounds?"

Aramis clapped his friend on the shoulders. "I may be willing to risk _my_ head," he explained, "but I'm not risking any innocent bystanders." Porthos raised an eyebrow in objection, but Aramis merely smiled and reminded him, "You will be blindfolded, after all." Then, with a wink, he added, "Perhaps, if I survive this time, we can try with a bigger audience next time."

"If you survive…" d'Artagnan's repeated, shaking his head, dubiously.

"Come one, then," Porthos urged, gathering up Athos and d'Artagnan and shooing them toward the door.

Aramis had been quick in obtaining a melon, Porthos observed, for he met them at the training grounds just as the trio arrived. Holding up the target, he asked, "Ready?"

Porthos nodded, grinning with an eagerness that made d'Artagnan shudder. He looked to Athos, hoping the man might have come to his senses and decided to stop this nonsense before it was too late. Athos, though, merely grinned in amusement.

"This post will do, I think," Aramis stated, matter-of-factly, as he stood in front of one of the post they would hang melons off of when training. "Now just give me a moment," he said, as he pulled out a sash and waved it toward Athos. "If you would be so kind…" Athos nodded, taking the sash and moving over to bind it over Porthos's eyes. "I'll just get this melon balanced," he continued, distractedly, as he concentrated on his task," and we can get this show on the road."

D'Artagnan slapped a hand over his eyes, wondering again at the sanity of his companions, and then at his own in having not fetched Treville or the Red Guard, or done something that might have put a stop to this nonsense already. He was just about remedy that situation, when Athos finished with the blindfold, and Aramis removed the melon from his head, tied it to a string, and attached the string to a ready hook.

A slow smile spread across d'Artagnan's face as comprehension finally settled upon him. Athos's clucked at him, though, before he could accidentally spoil the trick.

"Ready," Aramis shouted, from beside the post. He hovered there for a moment, waiting for Porthos to raise his pistol.

"You sure about this?" Porthos asked, hesitating.

"Piece of cake," Aramis assured. "You've made this shot a dozen time. Just remember how high you usually aim and do it again."

"All right, if you're sure," Porthos agreed, with a shrug, before finally raising his pistol.

Aramis stepped away from the post then, but not as far as d'Artagnan would have liked. In his hand, he held the end of the string attached to the melon, and that was the limit of his distance. Aramis seemed unconcerned, though. Shooting a grin at d'Artagnan, he waiting calmly for Porthos to pull the trigger.

Focused on Aramis, d'Artagnan saw him twitch the string, which should have alerted him and yet he still started when…

 _Bang!_

The melon splatted a hair before the bullet hit the post, but d'Artagnan didn't notice as the others erupted into a flurry of activity. Aramis had quickly strolled back to the post, gathered up a bit of smashed melon and was sprinkling it atop his head—though, d'Artagnan noted, the action was not unlike when he'd brushed it out of his hair the last time.

Athos, on the other hand, had clapped Porthos on the shoulders, as he congratulated him. "Nicely done! You'll be giving Aramis a run for his money as the marksman among us if you keep that up," he announced, with a grim.

Aramis rolled his eyes, but then grinned as Porthos pulled of his blindfold and stared at his friend with a combination of relief and amazement. Then a slow, silly grin spread across his face.

"Next time, with a bigger audience," Porthos urged, as Aramis came up to offer his own hardy clap of congratulations.

"We'll see," he responded, with a laugh.

"Let's not," d'Artagnan chimed in, smiling wanly. "Young as you always remind me I am, I don't think my heart could take watching that twice," he stated, winking at Aramis.

Aramis and Porthos just laughed, as Athos grabbed d'Artagnan by the shoulders. "Time to put our young one to bed, I think," he declared.

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes, but did not resist as Athos pulled him away from the group and turned him toward home. "Good night, my friends. Do try to make it to your own beds without finding trouble along the way."

"We'll do our best," Aramis assured, grinning along with Porthos, as they waved good night. "Now, come, my friend," he then urged Porthos, tugging him back toward the barracks. "Share one last drink with me before bed."

Porthos smiled lopsidedly and wrapped an arm around his friend's shoulders. "It's good to be back."

They fell into a comfortable silence as they made their way to Porthos's room. Porthos raised an eyebrow at the choice of location.

"I did promise to make sure you made it to your bed, this time, remember?" Aramis replied, smiling wearily. The quiet companionship of their stroll back had allowed the late hour and drink to catch up to him at last, and he found himself abruptly ready for his own bed. Still, he added with a wink, "Besides, I haven't a bottle in my room."

Porthos laughed and fetched out a half-empty bottle, along with a couple glasses. "One more before bed, then," he stated, pouring a few swallows into each glass. He sat, then, at his small table, and waited for Aramis to join him.

Aramis didn't take long to find his own chair, and soon sat staring into the drink in his hand.

Catching a shift in his friend's mood, Porthos asked, "What?"

"I'm sorry," Aramis answered, lifted his eyes to his friend, all humor gone now and replaced with sorrow. Porthos's brow wrinkled in confusion, so Aramis clarified, "About your friend."

Porthos's gaze dropped to his own glass, as he shrugged. "Not your fault," he huffed, his voice gruff with sudden emotion. "He didn't give you a choice."

Aramis shook his head. "I'm not sorry that I killed him," he corrected, bringing Porthos gaze back to him. "It was to save you, and so I cannot regret that." Porthos nodded in comprehension. "But I'm sorry that you lost your friend."

"I don't know that he really was a friend, anymore," Porthos responded, glumly, his gaze falling back to his glass. "I don't think I even knew him, anymore."

Aramis reached across and patted his friend's arm. "Whatever he had become, he was important to you once, and it is no easy thing to lose those people, even if all that is left of the friendship by then is memories."

Porthos nodded, sighed deeply, and then downed his drink in one swift gulp. Aramis did the same, and they sat in silence a moment, before Porthos pushed himself to his feet. Again, Aramis followed his example and turned toward the door to leave. But before he could step away, Porthos has sidestepped to him and gathered him into an abrupt hug.

"Thank you," Porthos whispered to him, before released him.

Aramis ducked his head in a nod, then watched his friend tumble into bed before making his way to the door, a smile on his face.

The end.


End file.
